Now You See Me
by fictionandsleep
Summary: John Watson is counting down the days until the 2 year anniversary of Sherlock's death. On the day before, John thinks he sees Sherlock in the streets. John begins to realize that there's more to Sherlock's death than he realized and becomes convinced that Sherlock is still alive. He is racing to find the truth, as he becomes involved with more conspiracies and lies.
1. Introduction

Most journeys end on a lighter note.

John Watson's journey wasn't supposed to end like it did.

His life was like something from a thriller novel, but with an unresolved ending. John was once broken and then put back together and everything worked out better than he expected. But once the fall happened, John stopped working again.

Oh. You haven't heard of the fall?

All over the news, I tell you.

Sherlock Holmes had a great fall...

John Watson remembers every day. He wakes up in the middle of the night and keeps himself awake, because he can't sleep without nightmares. All because of the fall.

He feels like his heart is no longer with him, because he stopped feeling it beat after he turned the corner and saw the lifeless body of his best friend. Lying there.

Two years, nearly, of denial and emptiness. Two years the will to live decreasing. Two years of visiting Sherlock's grave, creating a permanent grass-less spot in front of the massive stone block.

The earth cannot function without its sun. The body cannot function without the brain. The doctor cannot function without the detective.

John believes everything can still be set right, deep inside, because although he doesn't know it, hope is left in his heart, but only where he can't grasp onto it.


	2. Three Days

A pulsating headache told John that it was coming in three days. Sitting alone, in the cafe below his flat, John Watson realized for the fourth time that day with a cringing horror that it was coming in three days. The anniversary of Sherlock's death, two years in three days.

_God, please help me._

The seat across from him was vacant like every other morning and John glared at it. Nobody fit John's standards anymore because nobody could be him. Not a single person in the world could ever match up to him. He was the only person who John couldn't stand to be with, and afterwords once gone, couldn't stand to be without.

Two years in three days, John recited it in his head every minute as he watched the clock tick them away. Speedy's cafe held all of John's thoughts and regrets, as he had tackled all of them every morning for the last year and 362 days. Speedy's cafe was his sanctuary and acted as a medium between him and God; the equivalent to most people's version of church. Nobody knew John better than Speedy's cafe.

Sherlock died and so did John.

John sat facing the windows in Speedy's and looked out of them silently. He would just stare most days without really having a reason, people-watching and car-watching. He was sitting in the booth, in the back, facing the window. He had his elbows on the table and the back of his hands supported his chin, as he stared blankly out into Baker Street.

_It's not true…He would have wanted me to…It was no magic trick…_

In the first few months of John's suffering those were a few of his thousand thoughts of torture.

John found one of Sherlock's prop nooses in a box three months after; he kept it out on the counter for a few days and then it came to be missing. He suspected Mrs. Hudson. What would he have said to ask for it back? 'Hello Mrs. Hudson, just asking for the noose back, going to hang myself upstairs.'

John kept on going but didn't know why. Maybe it was for Sherlock, for one tiny strand of hope that one day, he would see the black coat come round the corner and step into the threshold of the cafe. That one day his life would go back to normal.

John left a few minutes later to go back into his flat.

"Morning, John," Mrs. Hudson called from inside the kitchen.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson. Mind if I come in?"

"Go right ahead, John."

He stepped inside the downstairs kitchen of Mrs. Hudson's but went no further than the doorway. She was organizing things in her fridge, probably preparing to go shopping for groceries later. John stood a moment without saying a word, he looked at the floor and leaned against the wall like he had a cane once more.

"How are you then, John?" Mrs. Hudson stopped her rushing about and stood facing John. She was in no condition like John's but she would get there. It would only take three days.

He cleared his throat and nodded lightly. "I'm doing alright."

"Oh, John," she said, and began to get busy again. "It's OK to feel like this, I mean, you two were so close and all. I'd never seen Sherlock so taken with anyone like that before-"

"Please, Mrs. Hudson, I just-" He pinched the skin in-between his eyebrows and a headache hit him.

"I see, prefer not to talk about it then," she said. "I'm sorry, dearie."

Mrs. Hudson, after the fall, was a mess like John. She visited his gravestone with John for the first time, but she recovered quicker than John could comprehend. He picked fights with her and they had a few rough patches; John just couldn't understand how she got over it so fast.

"It's alright," he said, and headed up the stairs to calm himself down. He flung himself down into a chair and contemplated putting the telly on, but as he lifted the remote it just dropped to the floor, his grip fading as the need to rub his eyes overpowered anything else. Television couldn't distract him right now.

Three days was too close.

So instead, he looked through the books on the shelves. He organized, attempted to dust, cleaned out his fridge like Mrs. Hudson was doing with hers. The sudden urge to clean had come over him, as if he was attempting to get rid of some part of himself through washing it away, some part of his old life he wanted to forget that remained in the flat itself. But halfway through dusting the shelves, his hand let go of the rag and he grasped his head in his hands.

The headache became a migraine.

"Damn it," he whispered to himself. "Damn it all." He collapsed back down into the chair, the flat worse than it started out. The books from the shelves were all laid out on the floor for the dusting and things were out of place and dust was floating all throughout the air.

_Three days is too early to cry_, he thought to himself. _Sherlock, I miss you._

"John?"

He jumped at the sudden words and jolted around in the chair to see Mrs. Hudson standing at the door.

"Are you alright, dearie? I hadn't heard anything from you in awhile."

"Fine, thank you. See you in the morning." As she went down the stairs he turned back to face the window.

_I've been asleep for hours… but I don't remember falling asleep._

The room was darker and gloomier now, and the books that were piled on the floor reflected the moonlight coming in from the window. The skull on the mantle was illuminated and John stared at it. He hated how at one point, Sherlock had appreciated the skull more than he had appreciated him. Besides, it was a human skull, not a normal living room decoration. But throwing away something Sherlock cherished was too much for John to handle. Sometimes at first, John had a horror stricken dream that it was Sherlock's skull and the devil had placed it there for safekeeping. It stayed in a drawer for a month after that.

Now, John was scared that dream was going to come back.

_Only three days, three days is nothing._

_Jesus Christ, what am I saying? I don't want to go to sleep tonight._

A glimpse into Sherlock's bedroom before he would tackle sleep. Let's just say that he was awake for most of the night.


	3. Two Days

John hated violin music with a passion when he had had his notorious roommate. Now, he began to stare at the violin tucked away in the corner of the room. He longed to hear Sherlock play a song, just one song, anything. John was sitting up on his bed, trying not to think too much about anything, his mind would just stab him in the back. He slept two hours, more than expected. He took a short shower and got dressed, then Speedy's Cafe greeted him good morning. He went off after that to work.

That's right, we haven't covered that yet.

John's new job was his old job.

St. Bartholomew's hospital was where John worked as a part time doctor.

John thought he was ready, six months after the fall, to reclaim some of his old life, but couldn't make it to the block next to the building before he got queasy and began to think those torturous thoughts again. He tried to tell himself that his imagination was just poisoning his judgment but when he looked back at the building he couldn't help to look at the roof and at the ledge. John tried and tried and every day he worked on getting just a little bit closer, just a few steps towards the impossible truth that his life had to move on.

_Moving on, moving on, Moving on._

Everyone else had moved on, for Christ's sake. Why not John? John thought he was moving on and forgetting everything and his therapist told him that he wasn't moving on, he just wanted to believe that he was.

"You're wrong," John said, trilling his fingers on the arm of her chair. He didn't realize that he wasn't meeting her eyes while talking.

"You're wrong because the last time…the last time you told me something you were wrong, I wasn't traumatized by the army, I missed it-" He was raising his voice and his therapist had tried not to make it too obvious that she was scribbling a lot down in her notebook. He pointed his finger as if accusing her of something and declared, "Sherlock said I missed it and he was right."

_One more step each day, John_, she had told him. _Take it slow._

John made it to the door the third day after he first attempted. No, he didn't get over it at all, he only accepted (during the time being) that his life was over, and if he wanted a place to stay he would need an income to support it.

_Now you're making some sense, John._

But John wondered._ What if? What if he is alive? What then?_ It was a queer feeling he got when he walked to the building every day. Looking to the ledge and thinking maybe if he was alive he'd go back there.

If only John thought more about such an idea, he could have held onto it. He could have grasped onto it and believed and maybe things would have turned out better for him. Maybe he wouldn't have been such a wreck, two days before the anniversary of the great fall. Now, he looked to the ledge on his way into the building and it hurt his eyes, so he turned away and shunned it.

{ { { } } }

"How was work, John?" Mrs. Hudson asked. John stopped at the bottom of the staircase to respond.

"Fine. It was fine."

"Anything exciting happen?"

John opened his mouth but then closed it. Nothing came to his mind, nothing exciting, nothing boring. Nothing at all.

"Actually, I don't really…remember"

He trailed off and went up the stairs, into his flat and thought to himself.

_How the hell do I forget everything I did at work? The last thing I remember was looking at that ledge…_

John looked at the skull on the mantle.

"Look, I'm not crazy, just because I forgot my work day."

He paused, like he was waiting for a response from it.

"That's normal, right?"

Another pause.

"I just get so many patients and sick people, and damned hypochondriacs crammed into my schedule, I have to work through lunch usually and my God." John looked around the room and sighed. "I'm talking to a human skull."

That's when a trip to Sherlock's grave was decided upon.

It was only a cab ride away, and John figured he'd rather talk to a gravestone than a skull.

Standing in front of the grave, rain poured down on the umbrella covering him and the gravestone. He had to move from the dirt patch he made himself from so many visits; the umbrella didn't reach very far so John stood unusually close to the gravestone.

"Two days, Sherlock. Two bloody days. Boy, have you missed out on some crimes."

John looked at the gravestone and dragged his eyes across the date of death, the same date to come in two days.

"Seems like Lestrade is having lots of trouble solving them, you know, without you-" his voice cracked on the last two words and he cleared his throat. He looked past the gravestone to the ground by his feet, which turned to mud and grass in the rain, flooding to form a pool around his previously good shoes.

"I hope you appreciate me taking care of that God awful skull of yours."

The rain began to stop, and a light drizzle turned into no rain at all. John folded the umbrella up and pulled out a cloth from his pocket and he began to wipe down the gravestone. He wiped down the engraved letters on the stone block and brushed the wet strands of grass and mud off of the base on the gravestone. He put the dirty rag carelessly into his pocket when he finished.

"I'll talk to the grounds keeper about keeping the grass trimmed."

Drops of rain leftover on the leaves blew towards John in the wind. He brushed his hair to the side and smiled delicately at the gravestone.

"I can just picture you, telling me that it's only a block of stone."

John looked up at the other gravestones. It made him think; so many people that could change his life, so many people to meet, but he only wanted one person that he couldn't have.

He never liked to think that Sherlock was different, and he especially cringed when people called Sherlock a freak or a liar. It stung even more after the fall. John was always told, even by Sherlock, that he cared too much.

Why worry, John?

Why worry about me? Why are you so concerned about me, I don't understand!

John was glad that he had worried, now that Sherlock was gone. John thought about this as he stared at the gravestone.

"If only I could have saved you the way that you saved me."

He touched the side of the gravestone, then hobbled off to Baker Street to cross his fingers and pray for some way to ease his mind into peace.


	4. Only One Day, John

"How often do you go out?"

"By go out, do you mean on a date?"

"No."

His therapist set the pen and paper down and crossed her legs. "I mean in general. How often do you leave the flat?"

John began to chuckle and looked down, her question amused him.

"All the time."

"Not counting Speedy's Cafe."

He kept the smile on his face, resisting his urge to let it fade and cleared his throat. "I go to the cemetery," he choked out.

He felt as if he was providing evidence to the jury. They didn't appear too convinced.

"What about on a walk? Or out for a movie?"

John let his attention slip to the trees outside the room. Eye contact with his therapist made him uncomfortable, it made him feel like a victim of some horrific crime.

"John," she demanded.

John sighed. "No, alright, I haven't gone out."

"Not on a date?"

"No."

_What does a date even feel like?_

John actually had arranged a "date" of sorts, to meet with Molly Hooper, six days after the fall. Back when things were really bad, back when any day his thoughts could have been the death of him. Molly had coined the name "the fall", after mentioning it in a short phone conversation, their last conversation. She didn't return his calls for a long time. When he wouldn't stop calling, she finally answered.

"John, I'm really busy."

"Molly, Jesus Christ, where have you been? I wanted…I wanted to talk to you about something-"

"If it's about the fall, I'm not interested." She spoke with a worried air in her voice, like she was going to say something that might get her arrested.

"Molly, I just thought that maybe-"

"I'd rather not…if you don't mind. I have to go. Good-"

He hung up before she could say 'Bye, John'.

He was pretty sure he couldn't handle another one of those.

When he had gotten his job at the hospital, their schedules were at different times, he had asked about her. He hadn't seen her once, and over time it made him increasingly upset. How hard had she taken all of it? She was foolish for developing feelings for a man who can't return them, but he just couldn't help feeling bad for her.

Back in his therapist's room, he sighed and spoke sarcastically.

"Do you think I'm not getting enough fresh air, you think that's my problem?"

"Things might go a little better if you try and clear your head by getting out. Away from a daily routine."

John didn't say anything back, so she carried on.

"Take a walk and think about it-"

"I've thought about it enough," he shouted. She looked from him down at her watch in the silence that followed.

"Our time is up."

{{( )}}

Rain had just ceased, so the air smelled fresh. John brought his umbrella on the walk just in case it began again. He walked down the streets of bustling London with cabs passing flying by and people babbling on their cell phones.

_A lot of fresh air my ass. She just thinks that if I stay cooped up in that flat that I'll commit suicide. I have a bloody job, I eat out… I know damn well that I'm fine! I have things to do, I have nice walks on my way to and from work, I go to the graveyard, I'm fine…_

John became exhausted by his overwhelming thoughts of false reassurance and sat down on a bench overlooking a puzzling intersection.

_I was doing so well. So well._

John had expected this during the week leading up to it; to have a dangerously high risk of bad memories, and especially bad thoughts. His conscious dared him to do things he would have never considered before. The morning had gone pretty well, despite spending it with his therapist.

_And now I'm on this stupid walk getting some "fresh air". Why do I even bother._

Then the rain began again. John put his umbrella.

_What am I doing out here? I'm only multiplying the damages._

_You wouldn't have noticed if I left the flat, and I would have been angry that you didn't notice._

The thoughts were always directed to Sherlock.

_I would have gotten over it. I always did._

"One more day," he said to himself. "That's it."

John started to people watch and look for smiling faces, happy children and loving mothers. Knowing that others led a better life that him brought peace to his mind. Momentarily, but whatever he could grasp hold of was nice enough.

He found a couple to follow, who were walking hand in hand down the street across from him. They crossed their street and entered a restaurant, kitty corner from John's bench. He watched the couple inside the window get ready to be seated in a booth until someone in front of it became relevant in John's view. He examined the man, watched for the way he walked, saw his hands in his pockets. He hesitated to check those long neglected boxes on the list in his head.

"…Hold on…"

John got up from the bench and began to walk across the street with a crowd of people. He was looking at a man with a familiar trench coat, with an umbrella covering his chest and face. He held it there almost as if purposely to block his face from others. He was just standing in front of the restaurant, doing nothing but looking around. John stared at him, now just across the street. John tried to get a look at the man's suit and shoes, but it was hard with a group of people forming to cross the road leading to this suspicious man's area. John joined the new crowd and refused to let himself take his eyes off of the man.

_It isn't…is it? It can't be. How could it be?_

The man just stood there and occasionally shifted on his feet.

The mental checklist had been dusted off and now filled.

"Come on," John sighed to himself, impatiently waiting for the crowd to cross. They began to move and John walked quickly with them. Halfway across the street, the man moved a few feet away from where John was.

John rushed onto the sidewalk. Instinct kicked in.

"Sherlock!"

The umbrella that the man was holding wavered from his face just for a moment and John saw his hair. The black curls were dry from the umbrella's protection. John pushed through the people in desperation and "Sherlock" ran down the street in a sprint. John began to pursue him.

John ran after whom he believed to be Sherlock down two streets until the man turned a corner and disappeared from John's view. John had to stop running to catch his breath, he hadn't been in the field for two years, as of the next day. He coughed and gasped for air as he looked up and saw no man with an umbrella covering his face, no man with a trench coat and black curly hair. He had the presence of loneliness on his face as he stared where he last saw who he thought to be Sherlock. John forgot to put his umbrella back up above his head as he rummaged for breath. The words swelled up inside his throat and came out rough, with the air of tears and sweet desperation.

"…Sherlock?"


	5. You Have Reached Your Destination!

The Diogenes club was uncommonly loud the day John decided to break his long standing silence with Mycroft man sitting in the chair closest to the door began an uncontrollable coughing fit and all heads turned to him as he tried to suppress it. John remembered the way to Mycroft's office. He saw the exact same furniture, wallpaper and carpet as last time. Tradition was what kept Diogenes running.

_He has to know. I bet he knew all along, but he just couldn't tell me because he didn't want to._

John and Mycroft had gotten off on bad terms.

Mycroft had only caused the fall nearly single handed. He sold Sherlock's life story over to Jim Moriarty, who everyone knows used it for the worst.

John didn't knock on the door. The members of the club had enough noise on their hands already. Instead, he just walked right in. Mycroft was sitting in a chair with its back to the door. Mycroft Holmes sat, talked and walked like anybody who pretty much ran the whole government would. He turned his head ever with a slight movement as John closed the door.

"John. It's been awhile. I thought I might see you, today of all days."

_Today of all days_, John was reminded. _Though I know now that it doesn't matter._

"I still don't want to see you," John said with a blunt tone. He stood in front of the chair opposite Mycroft, but refused to sit down. He made it clear that this was only short, only on the account of Sherlock.

_Down to business._

"I don't know why you kept it from me, Mycroft. I don't know why you wouldn't have told me in the first place, and why you would have pretended. Is that why you weren't even phased by his death?"

Mycroft remained calm but looked away from John. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to be clearer-"

"I saw him." John spoke with a firm tone, stepping closer to Mycroft, who looked up to John with his usual cool gaze.

"John, today of all days, I would reconsider what you're saying."

"I know what I saw. It was him, I ran after him and I shouted his name and he reacted!"

_Why wouldn't you tell me that he's alive?!_

Mycroft glanced to the door as John raised his voice, his tone becoming accusing.

"I know how hard you took it last time, and it must be incredibly difficult-"

"No. No, you're just avoiding the real answer."

"John," Mycroft tried to calm him down by speaking vigorously. "This is very hard for myself as well as for you. Do you think I haven't convinced myself that every black coated man in the street that I see is my baby brother?"

John looked down and pursed his lips as he thought about Mycroft's words.

_I saw him. Why would he run if it wasn't him? Why did he run? Why did he run if it wasn't-_

"I saw him and he saw me."

Mycroft twisted his cane and with a light shake of his head he said, "Go home John. Rest."

_I can't believe you. You don't even care about your own brother._

John slammed the door when he left Mycroft and the members of the club scowled at him as he left.

{{( )}}

"I know you want to see him, but he's a busy man. You know that."

"Could he just spare a moment?" John asked. Sally Donavan looked him in the eye with a sour expression. She was sitting at her desk and John was standing in front of it, as people bustled around him into another room or down to other floors. New Scotland Yard was as busy as ever. Sally had a million case files open on her desk and a million things open on her computer but apparently had enough time to sit and think about John's request for five minutes.

_It's like she thinks she's above me or something. Always looks at me like that. Like…_

_Like 'I told you so'._

_Well at least now I know she's wrong._

"Look, I can see him, the blinds are open-" John pointed to Lestrade's office, where he was inside looking through case files. "He looks free to me."

Sally sighed. "Fine, but may I ask what business you want with him?"

"None of yours," John remarked and walked into Lestrade's office without knocking. It had been five months since their last talk together, a painful conversation that the both of them very much remembered. John felt terrible for Lestrade, who had told John that he felt haunted by what he did to Sherlock. It was obvious he felt responsible for Sherlock's "suicide" and he told John that he could never forgive himself for it.

"John!" Lestrade stood up. He looked happy; consumed with joy to see John again, but also he looked a little uncomfortable.

_Maybe he said too much for comfort last time we talked,_ John thought.

"How are you?" Lestrade asked, putting his hands in his pockets.

"Great, actually. I just came to see if I could look at the case file for St. Bart's…"

Neither of them liked to call it The Fall, at least not to each other.

As Lestrade brought his hands to his face, John became quiet. He looked exhausted and upset by John's words, like he hoped John wouldn't have brought it up.

Lestrade's tone became serious, all the joy of seeing him left. "John, why not go home and think about this."

"The second person who's told me that today," John muttered. "So you know what today is, then."

"Of course I know what today is," Lestrade said, his voice becoming a bit hoarse. "How could I forget?"

John looked down at the files on his desk.

"You already have it out."

"I just wanted to check." Lestrade sat back down and closed the file, and handed it to John, who took it for just a moment and then set it down on the desk. As John spoke he started off very slow.

"What would you say if I told you that he was alive?"

"I hope you never say it because there's no way."

"But I saw him, Greg."

Lestrade looked at John, confused by what he was saying.

"John…take a step back."

"I knew you wouldn't believe me, but as you are his friend-"

"Was his friend," Lestrade corrected. "And he didn't even know my name."

"You know Sherlock, he's like that!"

Lestrade ran his hands through his hair. "I think we both need to get some sleep."

And there, John knew that he could do no more. Lestrade was a brave man, but he gave off the sense that he didn't want to believe John, because false hope is lethal. So he nodded and got up to leave until Lestrade spoke up.

"This is a stressful time. Dozens of cases unsolved, practically no hope for solving them."

"I know it's hard. It certainly was for me."

Lestrade trilled his fingers on the desk. "Do you really think he's out there?"

John was halfway out the door when he turned to reply.

"I know he is."


	6. John Makes People Upset

John was extremely tired, physically and mentally by the time that he got back from his encounter with Lestrade. In fact, he felt like he could sleep for days, and it wasn't even supper time yet. He came into the flat and before going upstairs, he thought he ought to tell Mrs. Hudson about it all. He knocked on the side of the kitchen door and saw her sitting, reading a magazine. She jumped a little in her chair when she heard the first knock and looked up to see who it was.

"John! There you are! Sit down."

He smiled and sat down across from her at the table.

"You look like you want to talk," she said. John nodded.

"Mrs. Hudson, you won't believe who I saw."

But he was in trouble by the time he said 'who' and her expression faltered.

_I should have waited a few days, what was I thinking? The urge to tell people, to let them know it was all just a lie, I completely forgot what it might sound like on a day like today…_

Mrs. Hudson looked very sad and as she began to tear up, John put his hands out on the table for her to take, which she did.

"John," she sniffed. "I see him in every tall man wearing a black coat. I turn my head at every blasted violin I hear."

John looked down at their hands.

"So do I, Mrs. Hudson, so do I."

"And today…2 years ago-"

"We don't have to talk about it," John croaked, now thinking too much about what he saw.

_Was I just desperate? But if it wasn't him, why would he have run from me as I called his name?_

Mrs. Hudson nodded and John stood up, letting go of her hands.

"Sleep tight, John. I'm going out for awhile."

He waved good-bye as he left the room, and he had a strong feeling that she was going to visit a certain grave stone sometime while she was gone.

{{( )}}

Looking at the empty page for his blog, John waited until he heard Mrs. Hudson come in the door until he would leave for Sherlock's grave.

_As much as I love you, Mrs. Hudson, I don't want to hear you yell at him for all the noise he made, and for all the times you found a head in the fridge or fingers on the tea tray._

John smiled to himself, remembering how many times things like that had happened.

The front door opened and then closed, so John proceeded on his way to visit Sherlock's grave.

Usually, he walked down to the path of the stone thinking about what to say, what he didn't want to say but knew he had to. He no longer had to do that anymore.

He noticed that flowers had been placed at the base of the grave.

_Mrs. Hudson_, he thought as a feeling of guilt passed through him._ You poor woman._

John walked to the grave he had thought only a few days before, he would be visiting until he died.

"See?" John looked down at the flowers. Pretty chrysanthemums. Yellow ones. "You were wrong, you do have friends."

He glanced at the gravestone in a careless manner. If he hadn't been sitting on that bench at the right moment, he would be obsessing over brushing the grass off and making sure dirt wasn't inside the letters on the stone, maybe even using his own coat to clean it.

_Funny, that there was a time this block of stone meant more to me than my own life did._

"I don't know why I bother to visit when I know it's kind of pointless now. Old habits, I guess."

John sighed heavily and became impatient with himself.

"Nothing I say matters, because I know you can't hear me. But saying that, you have no idea how happy it makes me, because you're alive."

John had a smile worthy of a gold medal winner on his face as he said the words, and he looked around the graveyard as if it was the audience cheering at him for achieving the medal. He hadn't felt like this in forever.

"But I will see you, won't I? You'll make it happen. And if you don't, I sure as hell will. You're not getting away from me."

After those words, John turned around and left the dirt on the gravestone and the loose strands of grass around it, and as it began to sprinkle he didn't even look back to see if the rain made it gleam and stand out.

{{( )}}

"We do need all the help we can get…"

"…but?"

"But you're a doctor, not a police man."

Lestrade bit the inside of his cheek while he considered what John proposed. John himself stood in front of Lestrade's desk, trying to look patient although there was no patience with him.

Two days ago, the night of the fall's anniversary, John had been hit by the idea. Lestrade seemed to be on the doubtful side of things, so John spoke quickly.

"I know it wouldn't be a lot of help, but I want to try. You don't have to pay me."

"But why? Tag along at crime scenes without pay, sounds like Sherlock."

"Exactly. I feel like I could think like he does."

"Like he did," Lestrade corrected. "If you think it would help, I can maybe let you tag along for one or two."

Delighted, John nodded, but he figured that Lestrade knew the real reason he wanted to come along.

_Sherlock, being the bloody idiot he is, he can't keep away from crime scenes, from any sort of murder investigation. No matter how big or small, Sherlock has to rub his nose in the fact that he can solve it better than anyone else. Lestrade will only let me come along to show me that he won't be there._

"I'll call you when we get a case that's good with your work schedule."

"Thank you again, Greg. I appreciate this."

Lestrade looked at John with a fake smile on his face, it was showing that he wasn't comfortable with the idea that John had brought to his attention. If Lestrade could just destroy that idea before he was corrupted by it just like John, he would do it.

But John couldn't be fooled now and he wanted to see Sherlock more than anything in the world.

_Whatever reason you had to do this, whatever reason you can't come back, it doesn't matter. Because I know now, and I'm going to find you and get you home._

_I promise._


	7. People Leave Notes

"His name was Douglas Orwell."

Somebody took a shot of the body with a camera.

"Head of the Orwell banking company, killed himself last night at around eight o'clock."

The body was on the floor, sprawled out with blood spattered on the shirt, gun on the floor next to his right hand. John knelt down to take a look at him, while Lestrade stood and watched him. The rest of the forensics team stood, waiting for orders, having already brushed the few fingertips and evidence they could find. It appeared to be suicide, but nobody was going to take that for their final answer.

No, this screamed murder.

"Try not to touch him," Anderson commanded, while pretending to look at Mr. Orwell's personal possessions on his desk. John rolled his eyes and continued his examination.

"You think suicide?"

"Yeah. By the looks of it, he shot himself. But we think murder."

John stood up next to Lestrade, examining the body from above.

"Why do you think murder?"

"Look at the note."

Lestrade took a flattened plastic zip-lock bag from a member of the forensics team and handed it to John, the note inside.

John began to read the note out loud.

" 'I am so sorry that I stole money from your account, Mr….' "

John frowned and brought the letter closer to his face.

"…the name was erased and then blackened out with Sharpie, or something. 'The guilt was too much, so I say farewell to my family and to my colleagues, who helped me in my wrong doing'."

John crinkled the bag in his hands while Anderson watched him like a hawk, ready to take action if John so much as bent the letter. John, on the other hand, was prepared to do just that to purposefully piss off Anderson.

"There are more names but they're crossed off, looks like erased and then crossed off."

"How do you know that?" Lestrade asked.

"Well usually with Sharpie, you can still see the indent the letters made after you cross them out. 'May God have mercy on your souls'."

Lestrade led John over to the desk, where a member of the team had begun to copy files off of Orwell's computer onto a flash drive.

"Basically," Lestrade explained, double checking the files over the man's shoulder. "Mr. Orwell stole some money from his murderer, and he didn't do it alone."

"That's if he was murdered," Anderson chipped in, though both pretended not to hear him.

"He and three others," Lestrade continued. "The names crossed off and erased, we're pretty sure. But why write a note and cross out the name of the man you stole from? What's the point then?"

John began to study the note, picking over every detail with his eyes.

_Something is wrong here. This is not a suicide note._

_Hold on…I know._

"Mr. Orwell wrote this at gunpoint," John concluded. "See how twitchy and sloppy the letters are? It must have taken him ages to finish this letter."

Lestrade called someone over to write down what John was saying.

"He didn't erase and cross off those names, either. This note was written in pen, and if he were committing suicide why would he take the time to reach for a pencil, erase the names, then find a sharpie and cross off the names as delicately as possible?"

"We've scanned the computer," Lestrade said. "And we're searching for the people who's names were crossed off. We think whoever did this is going to go after them next."

"What have you seen on the computer so far?"

"Just a list of clients. There's a lot of them, but the killer was probably smart enough to erase his name off of that list."

John nodded and handed the note to Anderson without looking at him.

"Why even write a note?" Lestrade asked, to nobody in particular. "He could've just told the man. It wasn't that hard to figure out this was a murder, why make a sloppy job of covering it up to be a suicide?"

"To show off," John said, like it was a simple answer, but Lestrade looked very confused.

"Sir," a man on the forensics team butted in. "We have the files downloaded." Lestrade nodded and turned to John. "Thank you, John. Stick around if you'd like, we're going to search around the office."

John left the dead man's office and smirked as he did, because he knew.

This case had Sherlock Holmes written all over it.

{{( )}}

Down the hallway was the area you first set foot in once you get to the eleventh floor of Orwell banking, where Mr. Orwell's office was located. John looked over the small area; a lobby with a tiny couch and a fake plant next to it. A desk, very modern looking, with a secretary behind it. There were no police in this area, no forensics, nobody but the secretary and now, John. He walked over to the desk and took in the appearance of the woman. Thirty to forty years old, glasses, frizzy blond hair and a bright pink sweater, which when John saw, all he could think of was 'rude'.

"Excuse me," John asked, treading on polite. "Could I ask you a few things?"

"Are you with the police?"

"Sort of. They invited me along."

She raised an eyebrow at him but he continued.

"Could you tell me if anyone didn't show up for work today?"

She gave him a skeptical look before turning to her computer screen. She clicked the mouse a few times and then answered him.

"Mrs. Lee went home sick."

John furrowed his brow and asked her another question.

"When did she leave?"

"Hour after she got here in the morning, about eight o'clock."

While the woman was talking, John took a few slow steps towards the hall he had come from, the hall leading to Mr. Orwell's office.

"Thank you," John said before he dashed down the hall and into Mr. Orwell's office again, still full with police officers. John talked before anybody could start.

"Mrs. Lee works here, whoever she is. She left earlier this morning when we got here, and I think she's next."

Lestrade looked very dazed, like what John was saying was some sort of dream.

"She left the same time we got here," John repeated, but louder so it would maybe convince him that they needed to get a move on.

_There's no time._

"The only person who left," he said.

"Mrs. Lee was his personal secretary," an officer said, looking through the files on the computer. "She kept track of all his business transactions, records…"

"Jesus," Lestrade sighed, pinching the skin between his eyebrows. He looked at John, who looked back anxiously.

_I know I'm right_, he thought. _I just know._

"Someone get her address, her information, everything." Lestrade walked past John, instructing officers with new tasks.

"Get everything off of her laptop or computer that we find at her house. Come on," he said to John, his tone a little depressing. "Let's go."

{{( )}}

Laying on the bed with a gun in her hand, was Mrs. Lee. At first glance, it appeared she shot herself through the head. Blood was splattered on her blankets and headboard to support that theory, giving further evidence screaming suicide. John looked at her from across the room, attempting to deduce something, anything about her while the forensics team took photographs and searched for a laptop that might contain evidence.

"Another note." John flinched as Lestrade interrupted his thinking. He had been attempting to make a deduction, any sort of deduction. The only things that had come to his mind were things anyone could find in the police report, and also that she was bulimic; he could tell because of her fingertips, stained with acid over time.

"What's it say this time?" John asked.

"Basically the exact same thing, only she mentions she was smart like Orwell and got out of it all. So she knew."

John glanced over the note. "Names are crossed out again. I'd say she died about an hour ago," He walked closer to the body.

"Where is her husband?"

"At work." Lestrade was paging through Mr. And Mrs. Lee's personal calender . "He's some executive at a company. They make plastic bottles, or something along those lines."

"Does he know yet?"

Lestrade shook his head. "We'll be contacting him later."

A moment of silence passed as Lestrade and John examined the body a while longer.

"Sherlock would have had a blast solving this case," Lestrade sighed.

John smiled and replied, "You know him. He would probably have the killer's profile already. Wouldn't eat or sleep until he found this guy."

"Or girl," Anderson said.

"Shut up, Anderson," John yelled, and turned back to Lestrade like nothing had happened, and Lestrade just went with it.

"For all we know," John whispered, and as he spoke he became more and more excited by the prospect. "Sherlock is onto the killer already."


	8. Saving a Life by Taking One

With his laptop on the table and his determination next to it, John got to work.

Lestrade had emailed him a list of names, the names of everybody who worked with or under Douglas Orwell, down to the people who cleaned his office. Lestrade couldn't have guessed why, but he agreed, John had it all plotted out in his mind: he would take a name on the list and write it down, imitating the handwriting on the copy of the letter that he had as close as he could. Same size, same style, as exact as he could possibly get it to be. He would then see if the name fit in a blacked out spot of the letter, and if it didn't he would start the entire process all over again. For John this work was hell; he got impatient and on nearly every name he had to start over. He cursed under his breath every time he made a letter too big or small, but if he didn't write the letter in pen it wouldn't work with the rest of the letter. At the sixth name, he messed up a P and threw the pen on the counter in frustration.

But every time he messed up he would think about how Sherlock would have been doing this kind of work, and thinking about Sherlock got him going again.

_I've got to find him, and this is an opportunity to do just that, so steady your damn hands and do this for him._

It was a nasty cycle that John repeated for the best of five hours, before Mrs. Hudson walked in with tea.

"What's going on? You haven't made a single noise for an hour!"

John had stopped his cursing a little more than an hour ago, his entire colorful vocabulary having been expressed under his breath until it was all said.

"Working on a case, Mrs. Hudson."

"Well I brought you some tea, dear. Who knows, it might be sitting here untouched when I come back for it!"

He knew what she was referring to; when Sherlock went on cases, he ignored the usual human need to eat or drink. They were distracting to him.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he murmured, as she left the room. She didn't even wait to see if John would look at her, he kept his head down working on the letters the whole time.

Two hours later he finished with the list. He had gotten up to get a drink of tea and allowed his eyes a ten minute break; the idea of himself becoming like Sherlock scared him.

_I miss you but I will not become you, God no._

He sat drinking his tea during that short ten minutes and serenity came upon him. Just as much as people enjoy a walk on the beach alone with their sweetheart, or reading their favorite book before the sun goes down on their porch, John found great comfort looking at the skull on the mantle and the violin tucked away behind the couch, peeking out just enough to see. He saw Sherlock there once again, playing his violin while looking out of the window. He saw Sherlock sitting in the kitchen, looking through the microscope at God knows what. He was looking through books for something, once done with them throwing them to the ground. He was running his hands angrily through his hair, trying to figure out something for a case. And John was sitting in the chair by the fireplace, watching all of this happen with a smile on his face. It was a moment you wished would last forever, but by wishing such a thing makes it move quicker and ultimately end.

None of the names fit. For all of his work and patience, none of the names fit.

_You must be joking._

John laid down on the couch and jammed a pillow into his face, exhausted from trying so hard at something that turned out to be nothing in the end. He felt rather worthless.

_It's got to be somebody on that list! Orwell was the head of the company, there's nobody above him. Mrs. Lee was the secretary, she was close to him, she worked with him. Considering their positions, they would have to be important enough to have information to access accounts…_

John hit upon something; he threw the pillow off his face and bolted upright on the couch and over to the table, where he found his phone. He picked it up and called Lestrade.

"Lestrade, could you get me a list of everyone who works at McCarthy's company?"

"What, Orwell's rival company?"

"I don't think they were rivals, I think they were partners in crime, this crime. Send me the names of the executives, the CEO, the secretary's first, alright? As quickly as possible."

"Right."

John hung up and googled the company, looking for names on their website. He tried McCarthy, but it didn't work. After half an hour, repetitively checking his email, Lestrade sent the list. There were 12 names, and John was sure that it was one of them.

By the sixth name, he found his match.

_I've got to go. The last murder happened within 24 hours of the one before it. Within the last 12 hours, probably._

John searched the name on the list: Mr. Kurt Graham, Vice CEO of the McCarthy banking company. He called Lestrade while he did, asking for an address. Once he had the address, he didn't stick around to chat. He hung up his phone and shoved it in his pocket, and grabbed his jacket.

{{( )}}

John had planned on ringing the man's flat but there was no button to ring for. There was no secretary at the desk, either. Although the desk looked like it had been long abandoned. John walked away from the door and thought of another way to at least see what was inside. Mr. Graham lived near the Islamic and Hindu centers in Ilford, in a building full of small flats. A temporary place to live, not a normal area to find a banking executive to be living in.

_My guess is moving out after a divorce. A rough divorce, by the looks of this place, for someone of his status._

John walked outside the lobby, and admired the cleanly cut hedges by the front entrance. Then he saw the house next door; seemingly empty. Curtains drawn back, all of the lights out. John ran over to see the front of the building, cutting across the patch of grass that separated the buildings. No cars in the driveway.

_I bet I can see the inside of his flat from in that house. I need to get in there._

John looked up at the flat Mr. Graham occupied, the small balcony area facing off to the left of the building, the house on the building's left. A near perfect view for the inside to any of those flats. John ran to the front lawn of the house and saw a sign telling people that the place was for sale.

_Unoccupied. Good._

The front door was locked, and he apologized as he punched through the glass to find the lock. Once inside, he felt for his gun. He wouldn't have thought to leave the flat without it. He expected the worst to make himself believe he could get through it.

Quickly up the stairs, as quiet as possible, he glanced into the rooms. Furniture was still out, for display. John found a window with the curtains closed, facing towards the flat, Mr. Graham's flat. He was a little bit above their level, but not too much. He squinted through the curtains and made out a bicycle, leaning against the railing on the balcony. John kept his head down as he rested himself on a chair, and prayed to God he could be patient enough. He moved the curtains back slowly and then he became a witness.

Mr. Kurt Graham was leaning over a desk, a pen in his hand. He was trembling, visibly trembling. He adjusted his glasses every few seconds. A man was standing across from him at the desk, pointing a gun at his head, watching him write the note.

_This is our killer. I know what he looks like now._

John watched as the man finished the note, a tear or two dripping down on to his shaking hands. Mr. Graham suddenly put down the pen and slid the note across the table to the man with the gun.

But he didn't take it, he looked at it.

_…Why isn't he taking it? He hasn't crossed off the names yet._

The man with the gun said something; John wouldn't dare risk opening the window unless he had to, so he could only guess his words.

_There's somebody else in the room._

The man with the gun stepped aside, and John waited for the stranger to appear.

But the thing is, he wasn't a stranger.

No, not a stranger at all.

None other than James Moriarty stepped next to the man; adorned in suit, coat, and pin on his tie. John's mouth hung open in shock and he immediately steadied his gun to shoot him. Rage filled every bit of him; all he wanted to do was shoot him right then and there. This was the man who turned Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, his only friend, into a fraud and a freak in the eyes of the public. He had almost had John convinced too, that everything Sherlock had done was nothing more than a magic trick.

All because he was bored.

John was so angry that he began to cry. He wiped a tear from his eye and tried to steady his hand as he watched Moriarty look over the note, erase the names and take a sharpie from his coat pocket to black them out.

_You coward. You bloody coward._

He stuck the sharpie back into his pocket and looked over to the other side of the room, as Mr. Graham began to beg for his life. Moriarty beckoned for somebody else in the room to come over and look at Mr. Graham in his suffering.

John gasped and felt himself crumble inside, as he saw another familiar face step into his view.

_No. Please, no, it can't be him._

Moriarty looked to Sherlock Holmes and pointed at Mr. Graham. Sherlock looked worn down, like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. He walked without his usual arrogance, and looked powerless compared to Moriarty. He nodded at Moriarty's words and walked to where he pointed without a word of protest.

John was shaking with terror; he could only guess what it meant.

_He's working for him. Sherlock is working for that God forsaken man._

He brought both of his hands to steady on his gun, afraid that he was shaking so much he would drop it. His tears dripped onto the chair and soaked into the fabric. The look on Sherlock's face, John didn't know that look. He had never seen Sherlock so lost and out of determination before. It killed him inside.

The man with the gun brought it closer to Mr. Graham's face, as he continued to beg and plead. Moriarty looked from his henchman to Mr. Graham, a smile spreading across his face. Sherlock looked away from what was about to happen, his eyes weary from all that he had seen of the same kind in the last two years.

_Sherlock, how could it come to this?_

He didn't have any more time to think about Sherlock, because the man with the gun brought it closer to Mr. Graham's head. John had no time to think; he tore the curtains away from the window, opened it and aimed for the henchman. Although he was an army doctor, off the job for more than two years, his aim did not falter in his rage. He hit the henchman in the side of the head, knocking him dead instantly. Moriarty and Sherlock both jumped in shock, Mr. Graham screamed in fright which John could now hear with the window being open. John looked at what he had done and then got up and ran. He ran down the stairs and out of that house through the back, and continued to run until he hid the gun in his pocket and got a cab to take him home. And while he ran, he let himself laugh in a moment of joy, because Sherlock looked up just in time to see John and meet his eyes, and crack a smile.

When he got in the cab he immediately texted Lestrade, telling him where he saw Mr. Graham being held hostage by a man with a gun, and nobody else. At this point, it was his own fight.


	9. Things Become Crystal Clear

Do you remember, as a child, staying up late waiting for Santa Claus to come? Being so young, it was hard to stay awake. You had to pinch yourself and think 'he's coming, he's coming, I know it'. But did you fall asleep? No. You fought it, because you wanted to see Santa Claus so badly that the urge was stronger than the need for sleep. And when you finally heard him coming down the chimney, you ran to the top of the stairs and saw, in all of his glory, the man in the red coat and the white fuzzy beard, laying your presents under the tree. It was a true miracle! You watched him for a long time, afraid to approach him for the fear that he might not let you have your presents now. (And he had to have the milk and cookies, right?) He was the meaning of Christmas.

But then you see the beard slip, or you see his hat fall off to reveal your father's hair. He didn't come out of the chimney; he walked out of your parent's bedroom, and that's where he'd head again after he ate the cookies and drank the milk. Santa Claus didn't get you any presents, only your parents did. Santa Claus isn't real, and your parents lied to you. Your whole world comes crashing down after such a state of childhood bliss, and Christmas isn't the same.

And the worst part is that your parents didn't even get you what you asked for.

John could identify with how you felt on Christmas Eve, finding out that Santa Claus was only your dad in a fake white beard. He tried to explain how he felt to his therapist, who he went to see with great reluctance.

"You feel like you've been robbed?"

John had his face in his hand, his elbow resting against the arm of the chair. It was raining outside, a light drizzle. He felt like the weather was mocking him.

"John, you can't keep avoiding my questions."

John moved his hand away from his face, it was easy to tell that he had been crying and rubbing his eyes since yesterday's event unfolded before him, yet he somehow managed to smile, even thought it was fake."I feel robbed, I feel lied to, I feel tricked." He resumed his position, attempting to hide his emotions from the one person who was supposed to be helping him with them.

"Why do you feel robbed? You saved a man's life."

"He was there, he was there and I thought he could just come back and everything would be okay-"

John brought his fist up to his cheek and leaned against it, staring out at the gray sky to try and stop from crying.

_The only thing I could think about for the last week is the fact that Sherlock was alive, that he was well and was coming home soon. I thought maybe he just needed to clear his name, stay off the radar for awhile. Instead he's working for the man who ruined his reputation._

A soft laugh escaped him and he looked back at his therapist.

"He saw me, after I fired the gun. He smiled. I smiled, as I ran away, because the way he looked up at me-" John's voice cracked apart as he remembered Sherlock's mouth twitching up into a quick smile before John had to run for it.

_He was so broken and exhausted; then he looked up and saw me and it was like it all went away._

"Sherlock Holmes has never looked like that before."

John slouched back in his chair.

"I have no idea what to do. I racked my brain, after I saw him the first time in that park, for reasons why he wouldn't have come back sooner, or right away at that. Reasons why he would have let me see him."

"John, if Sherlock Holmes is alive," He did a subtle eye roll; of course she didn't believe him, "I think he would want to see you, even if he felt like he couldn't. You were his best friend."

"Sherlock doesn't identify friends."

"But you know that I'm right." John swallowed hard and listened to her.

"He just wanted to see you. Maybe he wanted you to see him."

John could hear his heart begin to pound as her words brought an idea.

"You could be right," John said, but he didn't say it to her. He was reaching for his coat, hanging off the back of the chair.

"John," his therapist watched as he slid the coat on. "We still have half an hour left."

"I have to talk to somebody."

"You still have to pay for the full hour!"

"I know," he replied, annoyed with his therapist, with everybody, but he was going to see the person he was most annoyed with right now.

{{( )}}

John purposefully threw open the Diogenes Club's doors to piss off everybody inside. The usual people at their usual chairs looked up at him with distaste; they definitely remembered who he was. They all glanced down at their newspapers and continued to read without so much as a word, that would be extremely uncalled for. John looked back at the people in disgust and stormed into Mycroft's office, purposefully leaving the door open as he began to shout at Mycroft, who hadn't even gotten the chance to look up from his papers.

"_You lied to me!_" Mycroft's head snapped up and his face became red as he glanced to the door, which to his horror was open wide.

"John, will you _please_ keep your voice down-"

"No, I will _not_!" Mycroft stood up and closed the door as John continued to yell, "You told me he was dead! I know he's not because I saw him, with_ Jim Moriarty_-"

"Keep your voice down," Mycroft whispered furiously. John stood in front of the chair once more , willing to bully Mycroft into giving him answers this time.

"Tell me the truth, Mycroft. You have never told me the full truth about anything, not when I first met you, not when I did cases with Sherlock, not when he faked his death. You're going to tell me the full truth, now."

_I've got you_, John thought, and as he watched Mycroft sigh and pour himself a drink, a feeling of long awaited satisfaction came over him.

"Please, sit down," Mycroft sat down in the chair across from John, who figured he didn't have to bully Mycroft anymore, this was his moment of glory and Mycroft could do nothing about it.

"What would you like to know?"

John laughed at Mycroft. "Don't do that. Tell me everything, don't ask me specific things. Start from the beginning."

Mycroft crossed his legs and told John everything.

"Sherlock and James Moriarty are both very much alive. They both never had any intention of killing themselves, they love themselves too much to do such a thing. It was planned."

John's heart was racing, he could hear his heart beating in his forehead. It was so loud, so intense that he began to get a head ache, his brain yanking at and storing every word Mycroft said.

"They were in too far, they had to clear their names. Moriarty and Sherlock both got off the radar, away from the publics attention once more with their 'deaths'. A deal was made between the two of them. Sherlock would come and work for Moriarty, in exchange for the lives of his friends."

John almost felt disoriented when Mycroft paused for John to say something. He felt like he was snapping out of a trance.

"Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and me," he whispered. Mycroft chuckled. "Yes, that's right. Sherlock's friends."

"The both of them keep their names out of the papers, avoid public attention. Sherlock works for Jim Moriarty now."

John tried to talk but nothing came to him. It was like speaking was entirely new to him, as he learned this horrible yet somehow cheerful news.

_He did this for me. For Mrs. Hudson, for Lestrade. If only Lestrade would let himself believe me, this would make him happy again._

"…That's all of it?"

"Yes, and if you want to keep on living I'd suggest that you keep your mouth shut."

"Mycroft, have you seen how many crimes there are in the papers? Why can't you just get rid of Moriarty?"

Mycroft offered John a light smile, seeing that he was in a very delicate state at the moment. "And who do you think is covering for those crimes? Sherlock is working very hard, I've seen him too, John."

"Have you spoken with him?"

"I wouldn't risk it. James Moriarty is a very powerful man, John. You know that."

_Oh, I think I do. Almost blew me up once, rigged a whole jury to keep himself out of prison. Convinced the world that Sherlock Holmes was a fake. He's got to be powerful to have complete control over Sherlock Holmes._

"So you can't stop Moriarty."

"He is not a man you can kill without great consequence."

John nodded slowly. "Sherlock wants to be found, you know."

"Yes, I figured that out after you came in to tell me that he was alive. It made me very angry. He agreed not to have contact with you or anybody else, not even his brother."

John put his elbows on his knees and leaned down, his head falling into his hands. He remained still for a few moments and then he felt an urge to leave.

"I'm going to try and find him. You cant stop me from doing that."

"Good luck, he won't do more than exchange a glance. He wouldn't risk your life by talking to you."

"He might," John croaked, his throat painfully dry. "I just need to talk to him again, even if it means my life."

Mycroft looked to his drink and swirled it around in his glass. "I'm sorry I had to tell you this, John."

"No, it's ok. I know everything now."

John stood up and pinched the skin between his eyebrows, then walked to the door. Then he remembered.

"I'll tell him you said sorry when I see him."

"Sorry for what?"

"You know." John stood trembling, waiting to jump across the threshold of the door and begin his search for Sherlock and Moriarty, know finally knowing what was real. "For selling him out. Right before-" But John could not get any further. His voice cracked and he turned round without another look at Mycroft.


	10. Long Walks and Small Talks

He didn't care if it took a day, a week, a month or a year: John devoted himself to finding Sherlock Holmes.

He's doing much better, John. He takes long walks down the streets of London. He doesn't snap at his therapist. John goes to his job and doesn't forget, doesn't complain, doesn't succumb to sadness or doubt. The grave stone means next to nothing now, but he still goes. Old habits die hard, I s'pose.

The cases he works on with Lestrade are gruesome sometimes, and beyond solving. John stands there and feels wrong, because he knows who did it, but nobody will believe him. Most of the time it's a dead giveaway: no clues, no evidence, and for a few there are little notes mocking whoever finds the body.

The cases have Moriarty written all over them, and John certainly wouldn't let Moriarty slip from his mind.

_The spider at the center of a web_. Sherlock's spot-on description made John shiver with dread.

After a long day at work, John went out for a lovely walk. He spent his entire days outside of 221B Baker Street now, looking around every corner and gazing through each restaurant window. Sherlock could've hidden forever from John, carried out his deal with Moriarty for the rest of his life, and left John in a state of permanent dejection. Thankfully, Sherlock couldn't do such a thing to his best friend.

John had walked for an hour, stopping to sit at the bench he first noticed Sherlock at. That bench was a frequent spot he occupied. Every day that he could, he'd sit for at least ten minutes and people - watch. No luck since, but John was a soldier. He wouldn't give up. He wanted results.

After his walk, he returned to the flat, but it wasn't completely dark out yet and he hadn't had any supper. Speedy's cafe was still open, and soon he was sitting at a different table than usual, looking out the window, eating a pastry. The old booth reminded him of how things used to be and he didn't like to look at it.

John was in no hurry, so he took time in finishing his food. The telly was on, it was a channel John sometimes watched, and the restaurant was quiet enough to hear it.

As a matter of fact, it was really quiet.

_I can actually hear the telly. Well, I could usually turn it up, the remote is right up there, but I don't want to be rude and interrupt people. But there are hardly any people in here-_

John's thought process was interrupted by the television channel cutting out, static coming up on the screen.

"What the…" John muttered under his breath. He looked around the cafe, and suddenly there was nobody. The man who had been at the table in the back had left while John was thinking to himself; the couple at the table over seemed to have magically evaporated in thin air. John looked to the counter, now vacant. Nobody was working.

"Hello?"

The sound of the static became loud, following his voice. John searched for the remote but it wasn't in any of the usual spots. For a second his heart told him Sherlock planned this, and if he just turned around he would see him come through the door-

People walked past the store, no door was open, nobody was there. John continued his perilous search for the remote to shut the damn static off.

To his surprise and relief, the television shut off on its own, but John remained where he was.

"You can't turn it off without a remote," he mumbled under his breath. "The power button is on the side of the telly, nobody can reach that."

"Sorry if I surprised you."

John nearly fell over turning around. Jim Moriarty threw the remote back at John, who caught and held it with a stunned look on his face.

"…How did you-"

"Through the back. Honestly, John," Moriarty crept a few steps closer to him. "You really think I'd keep things simple?"

John remained still, while Moriarty came to a stop by John's table.

_Damn it, do something. Punch the fucker in the face. He's holding Sherlock, he's got him. He deserves a nice hit to let him know. He deserves more than just a hit, if I have anything to say about it._

Moriarty brushed off his suit before he sat down, like a true gentleman. He didn't give any sign of being worried, worried that John might shoot or strangle him, or jump on him and ruin his suit. Moriarty was fully aware of John's capabilities, but John knew Moriarty's as well, and he would have to sit this one out if he wanted to see Sherlock alive and well again.

James Moriarty outstretched the palm of his hand. "Sit down, John. We've got some things to talk about."

"Where is everybody?" His voice was quaky as he sat opposite Moriarty, and he wished he hadn't spoken. He realized he sounded weak.

"I didn't want them around for our little talk," James explained, folding his hands on the surface of the table. John heard the tapping of his foot underneath.

"Cut to the chase," John looked Moriarty in the eye, folding his hands as well. "Tell me why."

"Oooh," Jim grinned. He reached for the container at the end of the table, the ones that carry the packets of sugars, salts and substitutes. "No time for small chat?" Moriarty changed his voice to a rather distasteful American accent. "No time to catch up with an old friend?"

"Can I ask you a few questions, hm? Richard Brook?"

The corner of Jim's mouth curled into a smirk as he fixed his gaze down at the container.

"I really sold that one, didn't I? New twist and turns that lead to places only I know."

"You really are crazy," John muttered under his breath. Moriarty kept his attention down on the packet of sugar he began to toss between his hands.

"How many cases have you solved?"

"What?"

"How many cases? If I'm right, which I always am, you are working with the impeccable Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade."

"I'm glad you hold him in such high regards."

Moriarty's smirk broadened, and he began to rip the edge off of a sugar packet. "He had a fun time arresting me for those crown jewels. Dear Greg, looked as if he hadn't slept in weeks." John swallowed, his throat was dry. Moriarty heard it.

"Does he still look like that?"

_Not weeks anymore. Years._

"No."

"Tell me, John," Moriarty let the sugar from the packet pour all over the table; it amused him to great lengths. "How far are you willing to go? How much are you willing to risk? Sherlock did an awful nice thing, saving your life, saving the others. It's his turn to be my pet, I let you be his pet for awhile."

John watched him reach for another packet as he set the torn, empty one at the edge of the table. "I'm willing to do anything. I'm going to find a way."

Jim laughed and ripped the second packet open, one clean cut. The material spilled all over the table. "You can't do anything, John."

Moriarty leaned in and the air became heavy and gravid with anticipation. John felt as if the cafe walls were leaning in along with him. "Sherlock can't come back. He's helping me, and he's doing a good job. He knows that if he's seen talking to you, it's your head, the housekeeper's head and Lestrade's."

"So why are you telling me?"

Jim reached for another packet. "Sherlock does everything I tell him to. He doesn't complain, he doesn't whine or bitch. I've gotten more clients now than ever before." The sound of salt spilling on the table ringed through John's ears. "But since he's decided to show himself off to you, his demeanor has changed and I don't like it." Jim put his face in his hands, showing just how frustrated it made him, and repeated, "I don't like it." He sighed, looked up and returned to tearing up a packet of sugar, the last packet of sugar, agonizingly slow. "So I'm telling you to back off."

"Back off?" John chuckled. "I'm not going to back off. You tell Sherlock to back off."

"Oh, believe me, I have." Jim stood up, leaving the mess he made on the table. "If there's another encounter, don't be surprised if you see a little red dot on your chest one day. That'll be Sebastian."

Jim put his hands in his pockets and began to whistle as he strolled towards the front door. Halfway out, he turned back momentarily to face John. "The only reason I should ever see you again is for a final goodbye." And then he was gone.

John called in sick the next day for work, to spend more time searching for Sherlock.


	11. An Official Reunion

**(Hey guys! So this is almost done, there's about three chapters left, maybe only two. Hope you've enjoyed it!)**

Faith is what keeps people feeling alive. You've had faith in a friend, a parent, a sibling, or a lover. Faith in the weather, as the thunder begins to chime throughout the sky, promising you a good storm. Though keeping faith can be difficult at some times, it is an essential to a happy, fulfilling existence. Faith, during the first two years after Sherlock's death, was left next to the violin in the corner, gathering dust. It tried to come out sometimes but John threw it back into the corner where he thought it belonged. Then things changed, and faith covered the carpet, the wallpaper, the kitchen, and the skull on the mantle. John became reliant on his faith, and it paid off.

_Sherlock is alive, he's alive and he wants to see me. He isn't hurt. I've seen him and I know why he was gone. I know who kept him away, I know everything now._

Now you and I both know that John didn't care for Moriarty's threats. Sherlock was clever enough to find a way to John, one night, while he was out walking alone. And if a red dot appeared on John's chest, he would die knowing he got his final conversation with Sherlock. But John knew another conversation would happen, and hoped it would be soon.

The very next day after the little encounter at Speedy's, John decided to go out and take one of his late, long 'Sherlock-come-and-find-me" walks, down around St. James' Gardens. Most nights he would turn every corner and walk down a few alleys, sit on a bench and watch faces, hands, hair. Anything that stood out. This night he felt like things were different. Maybe it was because of the talk he'd had with Jim, maybe it was plain old paranoia, but John was glad that something felt different this time. He walked slower; listened closer and checked every corner twice.

_Could be a sniper, could be a Russian killer, like in the good ol' days. Could be Sherlock. Hell, it could be a lost tourist following me, trying to pick up the courage to ask for directions._

He still had no evidence that anyone was actually following him, but John believed in his gut feeling and continued on with caution.

John walked down another street and nobody passed by or opened a window, nobody turned on a light from indoors and made the curtains illuminate. He turned a corner and saw across from him was an old sidewalk next to a fence, blocking off a garden. He thought that looking at the garden might brighten his mood, reassure him that life wasn't so bad, there were pretty things that happened along the way. So he stepped off the sidewalk to head across until he saw the man leaning against the fence at the next corner down. The black collar of his trench coat stood up so that his face was hidden, though it didn't block the familiar curls from view. Sherlock stood against the fence as if enjoying the breeze on a lovely fall day. His hands in his pockets, his gaze looking past the buildings and into the people who lived in them, analyzing every secret they had locked up. John knew it was him before he even took in any of this; having known Sherlock so well, he could figure out who he was by just the way he stood, the way he turned his head to see John, after two years of the criminal world. John didn't cry, but he felt a lump form in his throat of all the things he needed to say as he finally saw his best friend.

_Here he is. Sherlock Holmes, always had to have a dramatic entrance._

John let himself smile at the sight of his best friend coming to see him. He took a few steps towards Sherlock, who jerked his head to the side as if telling John: _follow me_.

John began to run, as Sherlock dashed down a few blocks, around the corner and down an alley. John swore in his head as he saw the fence, as he saw Sherlock jump over it. He couldn't follow that, he wasn't tall enough.

"Sherlock, please," John called out, but Sherlock didn't start running again. He stood on the other side of the fence and there was a moment of silence as they both caught their breath.

"I figured you'd try and give me a good punch," Sherlock said, straightening out his coat and adjusting his scarf. His voice was the same; it bounced off the walls of the alley.

"You bastard," John could only say, still catching his breath, his hands on his knees. Not only was it the fact he wasn't as fit as before, but seeing and _talking_ to Sherlock, his best friend, his only friend, after two years… it was a lot to take in. He pinched himself hard and discovered that this was in fact real.

"You bastard. You were alive, and you waited two years to show yourself to me."

"It was dangerous. I couldn't. I never should have, John."

"Then why did you?"

Sherlock hesitated before he answered.

"I had no idea you would be so affected," he admitted, and John looked up to see him. The first word that came to his mind was _empty_. He looked exhausted, deprived of sleep. He looked frustrated, like back when he couldn't figure out the answer to a case. His eyes were distant, they had seen so much more, so much cruelty carried on that he could only witness and watch, a powerless man against the world of deceit and crime.

"You look like you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders," John exclaimed, standing upright against the fence.

Sherlock cracked the corner of his mouth to form a sly grin, something he hadn't done in ages. "I've always had the weight of the world on my shoulders. The world has just gotten bigger since the last time we spoke."

John couldn't have agreed more.

"Sherlock… come back."

"Don't be stupid, John. I can never come back."

"We can find a way. I can speak to Mycroft-"

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, a hint of annoyance in the way he said his brother's name. "Mycroft couldn't have asked for a better deal. Killing Jim Moriarty is too much of a risk for the government. I suppose he told you that already."

"How could he just let all these crimes happen? Lestrade is the worst I've ever seen him, Sherlock."

"I know," he said, looking up at John from behind loose, black curls. "I've seen him too."

"But it's _you_ covering up all the crimes, isn't it? Jim keeps you around because you're the only person who can solve them."

"He keeps me around for more than just that." Sherlock spoke without his usual arrogance, anybody who knew him could figure out that this meant he was damaged; hurt by the world and the city that came to hold his heart. "Sometimes he gets bored and makes me solve a "little puzzle" as he likes to call them. Much like the Van Buren Supernova case. An innocent life and a certain amount of time."

"Sherlock, you need to tell Lestrade."

"What?"

"You need to tell Lestrade that you're alive. He's lost his inititative, Sherlock. Remember what happened before you jumped?"

"Why would-"

"You have to tell him, Sherlock."

John shook his head, not sure if he was irritated at Sherlock's unknown for the human range of emotion, or glad that he was back and acting much like his normal self.

"I _can't_."

"Do you know what it was like for me when I thought you died?" John stared at Sherlock, who didn't say anything in response. John's eyes told everything, they always told Sherlock everything. But John said it anyway.

"This world became my hell, Sherlock. Nothing mattered. Everything about you, people thought you were just some big lie, a huge fake. I never believed that, not even when you told me. It all happened too fast."

John blinked a few times, fighting off oncoming tears. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat.

"You changed my life, Sherlock. I saw things I never could have seen if you hadn't been there. I paid more attention, I looked around and opened my eyes. Please," he begged. "Come back."

"I can't, John. I can't find a way to come back."

"Then let me find a way."

"There_ is no way_, John. If I come back, you, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, you all die."

"No," John said.

_I can get around this. Mycroft can do something, Moriarty can't just keep Sherlock all to himself. It would get boring, wouldn't it? And I know that Jim doesn't appreciate being bored._

"John, I have no choice. I risked so much just coming here to meet with you, but I had to."

"Two bloody years, it was about time," John attempted a joke, but he meant it. Sherlock could see right through John, so the joke was ultimately wasted.

Sherlock glanced behind him. "John, I've got to go."

"What?"

Sherlock turned back to look at John. "I've got to go. Moran, the sniper, he's probably looking for me. For you," Sherlock corrected himself.

"Will he shoot me without a second thought?"

"The second most dangerous man in London?" Sherlock adjusted his scarf, looking at John from the side, simultaneously checking above them, behind him, over John's back. "Definitely."

John watched Sherlock pull his coat collar up with mournful eyes, afraid of what he knew was about to happen.

"Please don't leave me," John mumbled, afraid his voice might crack.

"We've been through this."

"Don't do this to me again."

"John Watson," Sherlock began, sticking his hand through the bars in the fence. "It's been an honor working with you."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in confusion as John refused to shake his hand.

"I'm not letting you do this, I _will_ see you again."

"Then let us hope for the best. Goodbye, John," Sherlock said, turning around.

"For now."

He took a few steps, John watching every one of them, before pulling out a cigarette.

John watched him walk away. He watched him turn the corner. He watched the end of Sherlock's coat disappear and he stayed there, watching from behind the fence until the smoke blew apart and the air became clear again. The alleyway drifted apart and faded away just like the smoke, and John's sudden reality of Sherlock, leaving once more, turned away from reality and into a wicked nightmare he was afraid he might have one night.

Although he knew that this time it was different, John held back the tears that built.

Another 'goodbye John' was too much for him, it brought back too many bad memories.

When he got back, John Watson glanced to Sherlock's room and cursed him, he cursed everything about his best friend and found his legs too weak to stand, and collapsed in the doorway to the detective's long neglected dusty bedroom. Mrs. Hudson always wanted to clean it, but John had always said no.

Minutes turned to an hour once John picked himself up and carried himself to his bedroom, where he slept with the lights on.


	12. Pools and Promises

((Hey guys! I apologize for being so inactive, with school starting, I've had tons of homework. There's only one chapter left which is pretty much an epilogue, so it's pretty much done! ))

Mycroft sat in the booth furthest back, and kindly told the waitress that he did not want to order anything. Too high and mighty for cafes, Sherlock's older brother scanned the restaurant and its details while he waited for John. Not ten minutes later, John entered through the front door and automatically knew which booth Mycroft would be waiting in. He sat across from Mycroft and took off his coat, setting it next to him. The waitress decided not to bother them.

"I assume this meeting means that you have, in fact, spoken with my brother." Mycroft spoke to the table rather than John, staring down at the scratches, but too lazy to try and deduce how they got there. An energy that Mycroft had not acquired, quite a contrast from his brother.

John nodded, looking at Mycroft even though he wouldn't look back.

"Yes, I did. You were wrong, he did talk to me. And guess what, I'm still here."

"Knowing Jim Moriarty, not for long." Mycroft lifted his head, not meeting John's eyes, the conversation impatient with his gaze. John didn't exactly care.

"You know…I bet if you _really_ thought about it, you could get Sherlock home."

"Please, John, don't entertain the possibility."

John pursed his lips slightly, furrowing his eyebrows as he looked at Mycroft. "No, I think you can. But I know it's probably too much for you to handle."

The remark made Mycroft's attention peak. Leaning forward and folding his hands on the table, Mycroft looked at John with an attempt of confusion.

"I'm sorry?"

"You know, you had Sherlock do all those cases for you. Couldn't seem to ever do one yourself." John threw the words around like they were no big deal, giving the impression that Mycroft was lazy. He figured it might set him on edge enough to prove to him that he wasn't.

"I have been perfectly fine, solving things without him the past two years."

"Oh, so you're alright with him being gone?"

"John, you know that is not what I meant."

"No, I think you're fine with him being gone. You know where he is, you know what he's doing. More control than you had when he was with me in 221B."

"What, with a criminal?"

"Mycroft, come on." John stopped playing his game, cutting right to the chase. "You can _do_ this."

"John, I thought we went over this. If Jim dies, there will be a number of deaths, there will be murderers roaming the streets. I'm sure he has orders given to people, instructions in case he might die."

"Knowing him, he definitely does."

"So you see why it can't be done. I don't understand why you insist on going through this."

"Because, Mycroft, I want to think of every possible way." John crossed his arms and leaned back. "I'm willing to do anything."

Mycroft played with his umbrella, putting it vertical to the floor, spinning the handle. John watched as Mycroft ran through his thoughts, his dusty brain, but John could see this was a futile attempt.

_How lazy can you be? I hope he is open for suggestions._

"Here's what I thought," John leaned back in. "What if we copy him?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean when Sherlock was on St. Bart's roof, when he had to jump. He had to jump for a reason, and that reason was my life, and two other's lives. What if we do the same for Moriarty?"

"James Moriarty would not hesitate in letting somebody else die, if it meant saving his own life."

"No, I think we can find somebody."

"That can't just be it. There has to be something else to go with it."

John folded his hands together and supported his chin.

"Here's what I have so far."

{{( )}}

The darkened swimming pool. a place where James and John both had rather painful memories. John wanted to meet in familiar territory, but not someplace too public. For instance, St. Bart's roof. John called Jim ten hours before the meeting, and from then on, he prepared himself. He knew that there was no way to fully prep; walking into a battle with James Moriarty, it was impossible to be prepared for that. His mind worked differently than everyone else's, and the worst part was that predicting his next movie was impossible.

John paced and spoke softly to himself inside 221B, the agony of the meet dragging him down. He drank his tea with a mix of adrenaline and fear; also without sugar. They met at dark, and although everything was sorted out, John felt like things were missing from his articulate plan. But then again, he had felt like something was missing for a long time. The familiar feeling greeted him on his way out and shook his hand, respectfully stepping out the threshold and following him in the dark. He leaned against one of the changing stalls for fifteen minutes. His phone in his pocket, ignored. Biting the inside of his lip with anticipation. Twiddling his thumbs. Fifteen minutes, and the door opposite the room opened with a gentle creak that echoed on the water's surface. Jim stepped in; suit, tie, polished shoes. Grin, posture, mischievous aura. Jim let the door shut on its own, creaking to a close as he took silent steps towards John.

Nearly a minute of silence passed before somebody spoke.

"I love this place," Jim began. His voice overtook the room, and soon John felt like he was swimming in it.

"This is where you killed Carl Powers, why wouldn't you love it?"

"More importantly, where I almost killed you. And your little _friend_. Keeping in contact, are we?"

_I figured he might know._

Jim got to the corner of the pool, kitty corner from John, but then stopped. John didn't know if he sensed something was off, or if he guessed John may charge and push him into the pool. Either way, he was fine with it.

"No doubt, you had somebody following him."

"Not then, no. Sherlock is clever enough to slip past me. But getting back is the issue. What, where, when, why, how… It's all about asking the right questions."

"How long can you keep asking? That's what I want to know."

Moriarty grinned and looked down at the concrete floor. "John, you asked me to come here, and I told you the next time we met it meant your life was on the line. Is _my_ life on the line here?"

"It'd be playing fair to just say yes or no, wouldn't it? What a fun game this could turn out to be, hm? Jim?"

The wide grin left Moriarty's face, turning to a deadly glare. He refused to speak next.

"I hope you don't think you can keep him forever."

"Oh, but I can. I can keep Sherlock until I _die_. I could probably keep him on my side even if I _do_ die. In fact…"

His thoughts trailed off, as Moriarty looked down to see a small red dot appear on his tie. When he looked back up from it, John had a grin similar to Moriarty's, plastered on his face.

"Something wrong?"

Moriarty's lip curled into a snarl; he looked terrifying, but John couldn't be fazed by it. He had too much to lose, so he continued on.

"Notice how, this time, there's no laser on my chest. Only on yours… We've got your gunmen."

A short laugh escaped Moriarty. "I've got others. You must know how many people I have in my employment."

"But none are _here_. _Tonight_."

The sounds of the water echoed off the walls; Moriarty had no idea what to say next. As much as he tried to look composed, nothing he did could hide the fact that he was puzzled.

"Something Sherlock said…about Sebastian. A Mr. Sebastian Moran, I believe" John explained, enjoying the hint of fear on Moriarty's face. "Friend of yours? I asked Mycroft about him, and we put everything together. Found out he was working for you, quite a bit. Brought him in just a few hours ago. Now, we're sweeping his phone and his laptop. From him, we found about… thirty other people? All of them working for you."

"Wonderful work, John." Moriarty pinched the skin between his eyebrows, before pulling a gun from his pocket, pointing it directly to John's forehead. Not a flinch; not a gasp or a retaliation of any sort from John.

Just a tiny smirk.

"Do it. Go on. Once I'm gone, Sherlock is free. He can go home. That's what I've been fighting for, and it means I win. Lestrade knows he has a bounty on his life, and he's willing to risk it, for Sherlock. He's got most of your gunmen right now, his fear decreases with every one he finds. And Mrs. Hudson is on her way to protective custody right now. Me, on the other hand…"

John reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a gun, doing the same as Moriarty; pointing at the forehead.

"How do you want to do this? Sherlock's life means more than my own. He has proved to be right over and over and over again. So much that it's a pain in the ass. But when I finally got to speak with him that last time, I figured out that I could prove him wrong for once in his life. By getting him _home_. So what's it going to be, James? Either way, I have you beaten _down_."

Moriarty's hand was shaking. If he knew it, he didn't care. It was a slight shake, one that you could only see if you were looking for it. John couldn't have been more pleased to see this man shake with uncertainty, with fear of not knowing what to do next.

_Proof that James Moriarty is, in fact, human._

John found his phone in his pocket and dialed Mycroft's number.

"All yours."


End file.
